


Angie and I

by Erimthar



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: F/F, Female Ejaculation, First Time, Large Breasts, Loss of Virginity, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Sex Toys, Tickling, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 07:34:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9168670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erimthar/pseuds/Erimthar
Summary: Peggy and Angie make love for the first time, aided by a Howard Stark invention that’s decades ahead of its time.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place not long after the end of season 2 and assumes the relationship with Sousa didn't pan out.

 

My name is Margaret Elizabeth Carter. The following is an account of my first sexual experience to the point of physical completion. Exclusive of masturbation, that is.

I am unsure of my reasons for writing this down. I certainly don’t intend for anyone but myself to ever read it. I suppose in future I shall occasionally peruse this account while pleasuring myself. But there is also the alluring aspect of danger... the embarrassment beyond embarrassment that I would feel should anyone but myself or my beloved ever read this.

I find the possibility of this exposure to be terrifying, but also quite arousing. So if you _are_ the terrible person who is reading my deepest secrets herein... you might as well know that I am writing this in the nude, with my right hand only. My left is otherwise occupied.

This is a story about my love and passion for another woman. I credit the film _42_ _nd_ _Street_ with making me aware of my interest in my own sex... the leggy showgirls made quite an impression on me. Not long after seeing the film, while riding along a country lane, I experienced the bracing sensation of a rattling bicycle seat between my legs while thinking about said showgirls. That put an idea into my head and into my hands, and that very same evening in the bath I _truly_ discovered myself. (Thank you, Ruby Keeler. You will always hold a special place in my dreams and fantasies.)

For the next six years I relieved myself not less frequently than once per day, learning to be quick and quiet about it in the process. Through careful and frequent manipulation of my lower lips, I was able to maintain a stiff upper lip throughout my trying school years, and up until my entry into military service.

I was keenly interested in both men and women, and had plenty of opportunities to indulge myself with both. But, not wishing to obtain the reputation of a whore or a sodomite, I remained resolutely virginal. I still am to the present day, in a technical sense... though Angie and I would laugh to think of ourselves as “virgins” after all we’ve gotten up to together.

This story takes place in the spring of 1947 in a big, grand house in Oyster Bay, Long Island, belonging to Howard Stark. I and my friend Angie Martinelli had been happily ensconced there in a comfortable “Boston marriage,” in between my various adventures and Angie’s shifts at the L&L Automat in the city. A long commute for her. Some rather longer ones for me.

My recent attempts at a love life, all involving men, had gone spectacularly wrong. At the age of 26 I was beginning to think I should just propose marriage to my right hand and be done with it.

This was during my last days at the Strategic Scientific Reserve, shortly before the foundation of S.H.I.E.L.D. My most recent job, as was so often the case in those irritating days, involved retrieving sensitive Stark Industries technology from agents of a foreign power... in this case, the Soviets.

Howard marks all of his truly dangerous or truly valuable shipments with secret code symbols on the crates. The crates bearing these marks had all been immediately spirited away by SSR investigators... which by this time no longer included myself, as I lacked a penis and therefore was suited for little more than the answering of telephones and the preparation of coffee, in the view of Director Flynn.

The crates of prototypes without the secret markings were deemed non-classified, and Flynn decided that examining and cataloguing them would be a perfect way to keep me busy for a few days. So he had them all delivered to the house in Oyster Bay, and Angie and I went to work applying crowbars to crates.

There were certainly some interesting-looking items there, some with electrical cords and others that must have been powered by batteries. One was a flat piece of steel the size of a book, with a glass screen that lit up like a television when a button was pressed, but displayed no picture. It was the only item we could get any response from at all. The others might as well have been, as far as we could tell, bits of modern sculpture. We noted down their physical descriptions so that I could ask Howard about them when we spoke on the telephone later in the week.

Only one crate was labelled with anything other than “Stark Industries” and various serial numbers. The words “French Saddle” were stencilled on it. This struck me as odd. Equestrian items were hardly within Howard’s usual bailiwick, and in any case the crate was too small to contain any saddle that I’d ever seen. Intrigued, Angie and I decided to make it the last item we’d examine before turning in for the night.

The “French Saddle” turned out to resemble a large loaf of bread with a rounded top... or perhaps a short length of pommel-horse without any legs. It was covered in brown leather, and on the top was a strip with several latches apparently designed to attach something to. The thing sprouted a long electrical cord, and on it was a small mechanism with a wheel that could be turned along a series of numbers from 0 to 10.

We plugged it in. It did nothing until Angie got the idea to switch the wheel from “0” to “1.” At that point, the thing began to lightly rumble and vibrate like an engine... and that was all it did. It did not open any portals in space or time, grant any super-strength to those in the vicinity, or even display a pretty picture. It just shook. Turning the wheel to higher numbers simply caused it to vibrate harder and more loudly.

Shrugging, we switched it off and prepared to put it in among the pile of mysteries when Angie found another, smaller box hidden in the sawdust in the main crate. Inside the box were several tubes of solid steel, ranging from about six to twelve inches in length. Some were shiny and smooth, others were covered with little studs and bumps, and some were sheathed in rubber. All were rounded at one end, with a fastener at the other.

“Huh,” said Angie, picking them up one at a time. “Hot dogs for the atomic age, I guess. Dunno what they have to do with Shaky, here. Guess we better get some sleep and maybe we can figure it out in the morning.”

“Oh, I think I can figure it out right now,” I told her. “Howard, you pervert.”

I picked up one of the steel “hot dogs” and slipped the fastener on the end neatly into the strip on top of the saddle. Eight inches of gleaming steel pointed firmly and proudly toward the ceiling. Then I reached over and switched the power on.

Despite portraying herself as a streetwise child of the city, Angie was raised as a good Catholic girl, and it took her a few long moments to realize what she was looking at. As she did, her mouth slowly opened into an “O”, her hands came up to cover her face, and her blue eyes peered at me in utter shock from between her fingers. Angie aspires to be an actress, and I can tell you that a face as expressive as hers would have done wonderfully in the age of silent film.

“Peggy,” she moaned. “Oh my gosh, that’s so _dirty_.”

“Yes,” I agreed with a grim smile. “My next phone conversation with Mr. Stark is going to be embarrassing for both of us.”

Angie stared at the machine in rapt fascination. “Maybe... maybe it’s a humanitarian thing. I mean, those poor French girls have been through so much, and they lost so many of their men...”

“I think rather that this little invention is destined to be showcased in some _very_ private parties in Westchester and Beverly Hills,” I told her. “I don’t know whether Howard is motivated by lust or greed, but this certainly fills both bills nicely. _French_ , indeed.”

We turned off the French Saddle, spent a few minutes making fun of Howard and giggling about the silliness of it all, and then we headed off to our respective bedrooms.

As I undressed and changed into my nightgown, I considered touching myself a bit, thinking about the look on Angie’s face when she’d realized the true purpose of the mechanical toy. But I’d “petted my kitten” quite thoroughly just the night before, and I didn’t want to behave like the lust-addled teenager I once was. I had to live up to the high standards of the 26-year-old lust-addled virgin spinster I had become. So, with a long sigh, I climbed into bed and switched off the lamp. In a few moments I was asleep.

Considering the life I’ve led, it has become necessary for me to cultivate particular instincts and develop heightened senses. One of these is the tendency to detect very subtle sounds that might go unnoticed by the average person, but that might provide a life-saving warning for someone in my treacherous line of work. Even in my sleep, I notice and react to unexpected noises.

And so I jolted awake at... 12:34 AM, according to my alarm clock. I lay very still in bed for a few moments, listening carefully for whatever woke me.

It took a while before I picked up on the soft humming sound. It was very subtle indeed... rather like the sound of a car engine idling two or three blocks away on a quiet night.

It didn’t sound like the heating system, and in any case the weather was too warm for the furnace to switch on. We’d had no trouble with intruders in the year or so we’d been living here, though Howard had one of his security alarms hooked up to the house. Had it been triggered, I would have been hearing the loud sound of Mr. Jarvis’s voice and the barking of several dogs... none of whom were actually present, of course.

I retrieved my loaded revolver from the nightstand, then rose from my bed and padded in my bare feet to the door of my room. Opened it slowly, with hands on both sides of the door in order to minimize squeaking. Out in the hallway, I could hear the humming sound more clearly. I cautiously and silently moved out to investigate.

The sound was clearly coming from the parlor where Angie and I had been examining the mysterious items earlier in the evening. As I approached down the darkened corridor, my gun at the ready, I could see that there was a single dim light burning in the room. One of the floor lamps.

At the end of the gallery I crouched behind a large jardiniere and peered around it into the parlor.

It was Angie.

She was fully clothed in her pajamas, and she hadn’t quite had the courage to install any of the phallic attachments. But she was straddling the French Saddle with it on the lowest, quietest setting, working her hips and grinding her crotch against it as if she were riding a man.

The look on her beautiful, so-expressive face mixed deep concentration with a desperate need for release.

In the dim light it took me a moment to notice that Angie had her right hand thrust down into her pajama trousers. If I looked sharp I could see her knuckles in motion under there. I could also see her nipples poking aggressively through the cotton fabric of her shirt.

This close, the sound of Angie’s heavy, shaky breathing was actually louder than the purr of the contraption between her thighs. That, and the look on her face, led me to know that she was very rapidly approaching her goal.

I smiled to myself and decided to be a naughty girl.

I hiked my nightgown up to my waist and slid my knickers down to my ankles. Then, setting my revolver down on the floor, I lowered myself slowly and silently to my knees, sitting back on my heels, and let my fingers lose themselves in the dark curls at my crotch.

Angie gripped the saddle in front of her with her free hand as if she were trying to keep from falling off. Her face glistened with sweat as she shook like a leaf and huffed and puffed like a steam engine preparing to leave the station.

Despite her significant head start, I was rapidly catching up with her.

Angie’s eyes bugged out, her thighs closed tightly on the French Saddle, and her whole body stiffened and hunched forward. Then her eyes squeezed shut, her teeth gritted, and she turned red as a beet as she made frantic little snuffling sounds. The poor dear was trying _so_ hard to be quiet, even in the deepest throes of her climax. No doubt the mark of a girl who had spent her adolescent years in a small apartment with thin walls.

I was getting very close, and trying very hard to be quiet myself. I bit the knuckles of my free hand and pulled the other one reluctantly away from my vagina. I ran my wet fingertips slowly up and down my kneeling right thigh, along the top and then along the inside, closing my eyes and imagining that it was Angie touching me like that, tickling my leg, teasing me.

When I opened my eyes again, my hand hastily flew back between my legs. Angie was really bucking and grinding against the Saddle now, and it was obvious she was already going to climax again. Seconds later she threw her head back... I could see the sweat flicking off her hair... and screamed silently at the ceiling as her whole body shuddered and shook. This time she couldn’t help herself, and let out the softest of whimpers.

The sound of that whimper was what tipped me over the edge. That and the look on her face, and the way her lovely, slender body spasmed...

I couldn’t help myself either. As fireworks went off between my ears, I groaned.

She heard.

“Who’s... who’s there?” she squeaked in a high-pitched, hiccuppy voice. I don’t think she was quite finished with her orgasm yet.

I cursed softly to myself through my clenched teeth. Taking advantage of the darkness and the concealment of the jardiniere, I staggered drunkenly to my feet (I wasn’t finished with my orgasm, either), hauled up my underpants, and smoothed out my nightgown. I hoped my nipple erection would go down before I had to step out into the light. For once in my life I wished I’d worn a brassiere to bed.

“It’s just me,” I said as I stepped out into view.

Angie yelped and threw herself backwards off the Saddle as if it had suddenly grown needles. For a moment, I thought she intended to crab-walk backwards through the opposite door and all the way back to her room.

“Peggy!” she squealed. “I was just... I was just.. well... I guess it’s pretty obvious what I was doing, isn’t it?” She looked and sounded like she was about to cry with humiliation.

“Would you believe I was on my way here to do the exact same thing?” I lied to her with a smile.

“You were?” she snuffled. “K... Kinda hard to keep this thing out of your mind once it gets in there, isn’t it?”

“Yes indeed.”

She pouted at me. “It was mean of you not to say something, just walking in on me like that.”

“I had no idea,” I told her. “And in any case...”

I stopped myself, as it suddenly occurred to me what I’d been about to say. I felt a little flutter of fear, much different from the physical fear I’d experienced in all my recent dangerous exploits. Should I go ahead with the rest of that sentence? Had I read the signals correctly over the months? Or would my words send my dearest friend fleeing in her pajamas out into the Long Island night?

“In any case what?” Angie asked.

“In any case, maybe I enjoyed walking in on you.” I snapped my mouth shut to wait for the consequences.

She gazed at me with a blank look, her mouth slightly open, as if I’d just posed her a very challenging riddle.

“Your walking what... how...”

I sighed and steeled myself, hoping for the best. “Angie, I was crouching behind that jardiniere, watching you and listening to you for the last few minutes. And I was enjoying it, and I was... doing the same thing you were doing.”

I winced at the terrible revelation that had just come out of my mouth.

Angie stared at me in stunned silence for a long moment. “Huh,” she said at last. “Isn’t that something?”

“Yes, it is,” I answered. “The question is, what?”

Angie finally composed herself and crossed her pajamaed legs on the carpet, Indian style. “Does this mean you’re a... trivet? Triffid?...”

“I think the word you’re after is _tribade_ ,” I said, relieved by the unexpected mildness of her reaction. “Or at least it would be if this were a hundred years ago. I believe the more current term is _lesbian_.”

“Then you’re a lebsian?”

“ _Lesbian_. No, I’m not. Actually I’m what Dr. Kinsey would call a bi-sexual.”

“What’s that? Because I thought you and Captain America...”

“Steve and I were never intimate in that way. And a bi-sexual is someone who’s interested in both men and women.”

“Oh. So you’re like a part-time lebs... lesbian.”

I smiled a little. “Sort of.”

She nodded, then sighed. “I think I’m a full-timer, myself.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really?” This was certainly better than I’d hoped for.

She nodded. “I mean, I’ve never actually... done it with anyone...”

“Neither have I,” I said.

“...But when I think about it... and when I... uh, _do something_ about it... it seems like I’m always thinking about women.”

“Which women?” I asked, with great interest.

“Well... um, first it was Lucia, a girl I went to high school with. She... looked really nice in shorts. And, uh, Bridget Feeney, who used to waitress with me at the L&L. I think she might have been interested in girls, too. And Olivia de Havilland... Lauren Bacall... Paulette Goddard... _definitely_ Gene Tierney... and...”

“And....?” I prompted.

I could see her steel herself. “And Peggy Carter.”

I gulped and tried to compose myself as my whole world re-arranged itself before my eyes. I felt a little dizzy. _Keep calm and carry on_ , I told myself.

“Well,” I said at last. “The difference between me and all those other women is that I’m here right now... and I feel the same way about you.”

Angie looked troubled. “But wouldn’t it be really bad for us if other people found out how we feel? I mean, I’ve seen some of the guys in my acting classes... and the dancers too... get called fairies. Which somehow doesn’t sound as bad for girls, but I don’t know what the nasty term would be...”

“Dykes,” I muttered. “Yes, I’m afraid it would be very bad for people to find out,” I admitted. “But there’s no reason they have to know. We can be very circumspect. I’ll have you know that I am a professional spy!”

She smiled at that. “It’s like the secret game,” she said. “Only if you lose, you get your life ruined.”

I didn’t quite know what to say, so I said nothing.

“So, English... you said you came down here to use this thing, didn’t you?”

“Yeeees,” I said, going with it.

“Are you still gonna?”

“Well... I’m...”

“Because it’s the best thing I’ve ever felt in my life. I mean it. _The_ best thing.”

“Judging by your reaction, I can believe it.”

She smiled and blushed. “But it’s only fair that if you got to watch _me_... I get to watch you.”

My mouth had suddenly become very dry. “Yes,” I agreed. “That is only fair.”

With a grin, she reached over and tapped the top of the Saddle. “Then what are you waiting for? Mount up, and ride ‛em cowgirl.”

I believe in the philosophy of “in for a penny, in for a pound.” So I reached down, took the hem of my nightgown in both hands, and yanked it up and over my head, leaving me in my knickers and nothing else.

Angie gasped and stared at me wide-eyed. “ _Holy cats,_ English!” she shouted.

“What?”

She pointed at my chest. “ _Look at those_!”

I looked down. “I’ve been looking at those for several years, thank you. And they’re not new to you either.”

“But I’ve never seen ‛em naked before! They’re so _big_! I mean, I knew they were pretty big, but not _that_ big. Those are the biggest boobs I’ve ever seen.”

“Stop! They are not!”

“Oh yes they are. Mae West has some big ones, but yours are bigger. You could fit both of mine inside one of yours, with room left over for a compact and my room keys.”

“That is a _significant_ exaggeration, young lady,” I said truthfully. Then I sighed. “All right... fine... they’re big.”

“Darn tootin’ they are. But you cover them up all the time like a nun. How come you don’t show ‛em off more?”

“Angie, I spend every day of my life surrounded by obnoxious men looking for any reason they can find to treat me like a cigarette girl. I get little enough respect as it is. Can you imagine if I was waving these things in their faces all day?”

“Yeah, okay. I guess I can see that. It’s kind of the same way with waitressing. You have to make real sure your top button is buttoned. Not that a scrawny bimbo like me has much to worry about.”

I was outraged. “Did you just call yourself a _scrawny bimbo_?” I demanded.

“Well, what else would I call...”

I grabbed her by both shoulders and kissed her like Clark Gable kissing Myrna Loy. At first she stiffened with surprise, but then she just melted. I let my tongue wander into her mouth. She let her hand wander onto my breast.

I was going wild with need. I wanted to feel Angie’s hands all over me... her mouth all over me... her _body_ all over me...

I broke the kiss. “I’m going to ride this thing,” I declared. “And I want you to do more than watch. I want you to take off your pajamas and touch me while I’m doing it.”

Angie had actually gone crosseyed during the kiss. “Hmmm. Whatever you say, beautiful,” she murmured dreamily.

I pulled down my knickers and stepped out of them. She put her hand over her mouth and gazed at my thick black bush. Apparently my naked body was a source of never-ending wonder to her.

I momentarily considered attaching one of the phalluses to the top of the machine, but I was in no mood for a penis just now. I straddled the contraption and settled down onto it, behind the attachment plate, sighing with pleasure at the feel of smooth leather against my inflamed nether lips.

Without a word, I picked up the control wheel attached to the cord, and handed it to Angie.

Smiling with barely suppressed glee, she peered at the wheel, stuck out her tongue thoughtfully, and turned it to 1.

“ _MMMmmmmmmm_....” I jerked and twitched as the thing came alive between my thighs.

I bit my lip and clenched my fists and clenched my toes, determined not to embarrass myself. I may be a virgin, but I am an adult woman and I can certainly take a bit of stimulation...

Angie gazed at me dreamily. “You look like a beautiful goddess on her throne,” she murmured. “Is it okay if I worship you?”

“Not only okay,” I replied in a voice that trembled along with the Saddle, “but urgently requested.”

She moved in, took me by both wrists and lifted my arms above my head. Then she kissed me on the mouth for a long, long time.

“Hey English... are you ticklish?” she whispered in my ear at last, nuzzling me.

“Why don’t you tickle me and find out?” I whispered back.

She tickled me.

I don’t know if she had some kind of magical instinct to know where I’m the most ticklish, or if I’m just ticklish in so many places, but she certainly found them all. My inner arms and armpits. My sides, just above the hips. The undersides of my breasts. The small of my back. My knees. My inner thighs, but they were already occupied.

I spent the next several minutes convulsed in hysterics as that wicked girl tortured me with her long, deft fingers. I laughed until I cried, I laughed until I choked, I laughed until I couldn’t make any sound at all anymore. Then at last _that_ torment stopped... and she turned the wheel up to 2.

All dignity went out the window as I grunted and groaned like an animal in heat, bucking my hips.

“Any more requests?” she asked sweetly.

“Yes,” I moaned. “ _Take off those damned pajamas_.”

She looked down at herself as if surprised to find that she was still dressed. “You know, Peggy, since I’ve been grown up I’ve never taken off my clothes in front of another person, except my doctor.”

“Then you might want to think about the fact that I’m going to take you sexually several times before you put them back on again,” I informed her, simply by way of clarity. “This is going to be the most eventful episode of nudity you’ve ever had.”

She responded with a shivery sigh, and pulled off her shirt.

Angie doesn’t wear a brassiere to bed, either. Despite her words earlier, she is in no way lacking in the frontage department. Though her breasts are smaller than my freakish knockers, they are not small. And, as I discovered here, they are absolutely lovely.

Her pajama trousers came off next, revealing those long, graceful, beautiful legs of hers. The legs of a dancer, I thought, although I so seldom saw her dance. I dreamed of feeling those legs wrapped around my hips... wrapped around my shoulders...

She stood there in her knickers.

“You want to do the honors, my goddess?”

“Hm?” I asked dreamily.

“Gosh, I gotta draw you a picture? Pull down my panties!”

“Oh! Yes.”

I lovingly reached out, hooked my thumbs in her elastic waistband, and drew her knickers slowly down her legs.

She has much less pubic hair than I do, which is rather surprising for an Italian girl... or so I’ve heard. Through the wispy brown fluff I could easily see the ragged pink folds of her engorged labia. I’m afraid that a moan of desire escaped my lips.

She sank down to her knees in front of me so she could gaze right into my eyes. “See something you like, English?” she said softly.

“I see someone I love,” I replied. “I’m in love with you, Angie.”

She swallowed hard. “Right back atcha, Peggy. With interest.”

She took my bare breasts in her hands and started fondling them, gazing at them and squeezing and handling them with such rapt fascination you’d have thought she was being allowed to handle the Crown Jewels of England. After a few moments of her doing that, and me telling her wordlessly how wonderful it felt, she leaned in and took my left nipple in her mouth.

It was too much to bear, and I orgasmed. A small one... not the screaming monster I knew was coming later, but a shivery-sweet little confection that ran from my nipple down my spine to my clitoris, making my teeth chatter and my skin break out in goosebumps.

Angie knew exactly what she was doing to me. She suckled and licked and kissed both my breasts, making them glisten with her saliva and making my nipples extravagantly erect. As she did so she reached around me and ran her fingertips up and down my spine, slowly, over and over again, from the nape of my neck to the crack of my bottom.

I lost track of how many sugary, shivery little orgasms I had as my darling Angela – so aptly named – made love to me with her mouth and fingers.

The final movement of this delicious symphony came more suddenly than I was expecting. I was so lost in rapture that I didn’t notice at first that Angie’s lips and tongue were darting a bit further down my body... over my ribs, and down onto my belly. It wasn’t until she started licking me round the rim of my navel that it occurred to me where this was going.

“ _Oh, Angie... please..._ ” I don’t think my voice had ever sounded like that before.

She raised her eyes to meet mine... those brilliant blue lights-of-my-life... and said “This is how much I love you, Peggy.”

She pushed me backward just a bit, so that my lower lips and perineum and anus were pressed firmly against the vibrating saddle, but my bulging clitoris and upper lips were available to her. She switched the power wheel up to 3, and buried her mouth in my pubic hair.

“ _Oh god, Angie! I’m going to burst... I’m going to pop, oh you beautiful little...”_

I heard myself scream... at least, I think it was me. And then I died and went to Heaven for a few moments, and came back a forever changed woman.

I don’t know how long that orgasm lasted, but it might as well have been forever. When I came back to my senses I was still sitting astride the whirring Saddle, drenched in sweat over every inch of my body, shaking like I was down to the very last of my strength. I was in tears.

I derived no further pleasure from the machine... I was finished with it for the evening. Instead my racing thoughts were focused on one thing and one thing only.

I could blearily see Angie standing naked in front of me. I grabbed at her legs and pulled her in close, seized a tight, firm buttock in each hand, clamped my mouth roughly over her sex, and took her virginity with my tongue. I had rehearsed this moment so many times in my mind, that to actually be doing it...

Angie barked like a small dog and danced from leg to leg as if she had to piddle. She shrieked and squealed and babbled nonsense, her legs buckling until she was half sitting on my upturned face. She sobbed and howled and pleaded for mercy that I absolutely failed to grant.

And when she couldn’t hold back a second longer she tensed her thighs and showered my face and neck and shoulders and breasts with her warm, sweet love.

* * * * *

I think we slept for a little while, entwined in each other’s arms as the French Saddle hummed almost hypnotically in the background. When I woke up I reached over with my toe and switched it off.

Angie kissed me. “Sorry I made such a mess,” she said. “I didn’t pee on you. I swear! I just... I don’t really know what happened. But it felt so good I can hardly believe it.”

I laughed. “I know, love. And I’m going to make it my life’s work to cause many more messes just like that one.”

She bit her lip adorably and grinned at me. “Maybe not tonight, though, English. I think you emptied me. But another night...”

“Every night that I can get it,” I promised her, and then the kissing started again and lasted for quite a long while.

“Peggy,” she said after a long period of silent cuddling. “I want to marry you. I want to be your wife.”

I smiled and hugged her close. “How I wish that were possible,” I sighed.

“But it _is_ possible. I mean, I know no priest or justice of the peace will do it. I don’t think either one of us could pass for a fella...”

I giggled.

“...But when it’s just the two of us, together, here in this nice house or whatever house we move into after Mr. Stark kicks our fannies out... it could be like I’m your wife, and you’re... uh, _my_ wife.”

“What, I don’t get to be the husband?”

“Not with jugs like those, you don’t.”

“Ha! Alright. I don’t have a ring or anything...”

“That’s okay.”

I composed myself. “I, Margaret Elizabeth Carter, take you, Angela... uh, what’s your middle name?”

“Maria,” she said. “I think all us Italian girls have the middle name Maria.”

“...Angela Maria Martinelli, to be my lawfully... uh, to be my wedded wife, for richer or poorer, to have... every chance I get... and to hold... every chance I get...”

She rolled over astride me on her hands and knees, looking down at me.

“These vows are getting awfully spicy,” she said with mock severity. “Peggy Carter, I love you more than anything or anyone in the world and I hereby declare myself your wife. Amen. I may kiss the bride.”

And she did. I can’t recall any other wedding where the bride kissed the bride while lying naked on top of her. Maybe in some exotic faraway culture.

“And Peggy,” she said, “I know this is impossible, but there are a lot of things we thought were impossible until just recently. If we ever find a way... I want to have your baby.”

That choked me up, more than anything else. “Absolutely,” I said, my stiff upper lip quivering. “I can’t think of anyone...” and that’s as far as I could go.

Angie sat up with a sigh. “And another thing,” she said. “Mr. Stark is _not_ getting that back.” She pointed at the inert French Saddle.

“Oh, I _quite_ agree,” I purred. “I only made it up to 3. There are seven more numbers to explore. Howard is just going to have to wonder for the rest of his life whatever happened to it.”

Angie crossed her eyes comically, thinking about four through ten.

She picked up the box of phallus attachments. “Should we keep these, too?”

I grinned at her. “Throw them away. Who needs cocks?”

She grinned back and pushed the box away. “Yeah,” she said. “Nuts to cocks!”

And then we discovered we weren’t quite as exhausted as we thought we were.

 


End file.
